


All the Universe’s a Stage

by Severnlight



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Original Trilogy, Star Wars: Rebellion Era - All Media Types
Genre: Admiral Avuncular, Drama in the theatrical sense, Gen, Lord Vader is Upstaged, Piett went to the Navy instead of the Coruscant Drama School for a Reason, Pray For Piett
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-13
Updated: 2020-07-29
Packaged: 2021-03-05 03:27:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,307
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25247626
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Severnlight/pseuds/Severnlight
Summary: Admiral Piett and Luke Skywalker share a life-changing adventure neither of them signed up for. They better get theiracttogether if they hope to survive — and why is everyone suddenly so interested in their performance?
Relationships: Firmus Piett & Darth Vader, Firmus Piett & Luke Skywalker, Luke Skywalker & Darth Vader
Comments: 68
Kudos: 245
Collections: 2020 Star Wars Summer Fic Exchange





	1. Exposition

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Mokulule](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mokulule/gifts).



> For the wonderful Mokulule - my lucky match in the SW 2020 Summer Fic Exchange. I hope you like all the Piett shenanigans! 😆
> 
> Moku's prompt was: “Well we have two options, both of which you’re not going to like.”
> 
> Many thanks to SpellCleaver, SilverDaye and Zoryany for always lending a helpful ear with this fic over the past few weeks. And my deepest appreciation to SpellCleaver for beta-ing it when I dropped it at the last moment - I owe you one (maybe two?) now XD

“ _All the world’s a stage,  
_ _And all the men and women merely players;  
_ _They have their exits and their entrances;  
_ _And one man in his time plays many parts,  
_ _His acts being seven ages.“_ _  
  
_by William Shakespeare  
_(from_ As You Like It _, spoken by Jaques)_

ACT I  
  
The hologram flashed briefly before coming to life, allowing Piett just enough time to straighten his shoulders.

“Admiral.” The familiar voice filled the shuttle with its accustomed grim authority. “I understood you to be at leadership training on Carida.”

“My lord… I apologize for contacting you thus…” Piett darted a rapid glance towards the back of the shuttle, as if trying to make sure what he was about to reveal was not a mirage, so that he would keep his good standing to continue breathing after the event. Lord Vader crossed his arms in front of his chest. It had been three months since Piett’s near-death experience aboard the Executor over Bespin, and the elusive culprit of it all was now secured in the shuttle’s cargo hold. 

The Admiral steeled himself and spoke the words.

“While on planet, I was able to arrest Luke Skywalker, my lord.”

Piett must have imagined it, but the lights in the shuttle dimmed, as if fizzling out, then suddenly sparked brighter with a hiss.

“You captured… Skywalker?”

“Yes, my lord. He is currently on the shuttle.”

Vader remained utterly still for so long that Piett worried whether the connection had broken off, and he was staring at a freeze frame of his hologram. Yet he was afraid to poke, and continued to wait patiently.

“Are you certain you have the right man?” the Dark Lord ground out, at last.

Piett swallowed. 

“I believe so, sir. His appearance and biomarkers match the intel perfectly. I decided to contact you first.”

“I wish to see him.”

“Certainly, sir.”

The Admiral thought for a moment. He decided to take the holo comm over to the cargo compartment, instead of bringing Skywalker to the pilot cabin, then muttered an apology, and carried the device with Lord Vader’s shimmering form towards the back of the shuttle. The doors hissed open. Piett entered the dim space in silence and held the mini projector in a way which gave Lord Vader the most advantageous view of the room. Skywalker, curled up in a corner with head between his elbows, took a distracted glance at Piett, noticed the hologram, then sprang up as if stung by a zillobee. 

Lord Vader loomed silent, Skywalker’s breathing audibly quickened, and the space suddenly felt colder beyond what Piett thought was a reasonably possible temperature difference between two connected compartments on the same shuttle. But one learned to live with such abnormalities around Lord Vader.

“So… it is true…” Vader’s voice boomed in the space, then he turned to Piett. “Good work, Admiral. Now leave us.”

Piett nodded, placed the device on a cargo crate and closed the door behind him as he left. Why Vader wanted to talk to Skywalker privately was beyond him, but by now everyone serving on the Executor knew that Vader’s unfathomable interest in this elusive rebel had crossed all fathomable boundaries, and it was best not to question any parts of it.  
  


Back in the shuttle’s cargo hold, the staring match between father and son continued for over a minute. 

“I have nothing to say to you.” Luke spoke first — he cursed his voice for trembling — then suddenly realized that the holo comm was fully within his reach, and moved to switch it off. An invisible wall broke his intent like an energy field, pushing him back — not forcefully, but with enough intent to let him know the comm was about to remain on.

“I have plenty of things to say to you, _my son_.”

Luke shook his head.

“Don’t call me that!”

“Why not?” Vader crossed his arms, and even in a diminished form, his presence managed to fill the entire cargo hold. “All your life, you have yearned for your father. Do not deny it — I have felt it. Half my life, I’ve mourned the death of my son. We were both mistaken, in a way. It is the will of the Force that we should move past it together.”

Luke stumbled until his back hit the wall, then looked up to the ceiling. He did not dare look down for a few long seconds, lest Vader see tears welling in his eyes.

“Your destiny has always been by my side, Luke. With time, you will learn to accept it.”

Luke slid against the wall, back into his curled position, hiding his face behind his cuffed arms. 

“No… I will not.” he refused to offer more than this simple reply, which most likely would infuriate Vader. Luckily, Luke did not have time to worry about the conversation further.

The lights flickered again in the shuttle, and in the cockpit, Piett wondered whether he should run a diagnostic. He also wondered if leaving the comm device with this dangerous rebel without supervision had been a reckless thing to do, even if it was by order of Lord Vader. Maybe he hadn’t meant that. Suddenly, the aft compartment doors split open, and the comm went flying out of the cargo hold.

“What?…” Vader’s voice growled in the mayhem, as the device hit the ceiling then shattered with a clang on the floor. A high pitched sound pierced Piett’s ears, followed by sharp pain, as if he had climbed 1000 meters in a split second. Skywalker’s scream broke through the muffled pressure, and the Admiral desperately reached for something to hold on to. The shuttle wailed, and the temperature around them rose as if they were getting dropped in a volcano, then just as abruptly, the heat dissipated. Piett glanced back in panic and saw Skywalker’s face lengthen like a caricature, swirled together will all crates in the cargo hold. The world shifted into a spectrum of black and white, then flashed to neon. With a hollow bang in his ears, Piett lost consciousness. The last thought he grasped onto was of how much trouble he was going to find himself in when Lord Vader found out he had lost Skywalker.

ACT II

The next time Piett opened his eyes, he lay splayed on the shuttle floor, and his body ached as if it had just been put through a wringer. The familiar hum of the engines was gone, but the shuttle appeared to be shaking back and forth as if caught in a cradle. He tried to lift himself up, gingerly. His head spun as his last memories resurfaced. He looked around through squinted eyes, and spotted Skywalker over in the cockpit controls, poring through the instruments and readouts by the pilot seat.

Piett sat up, stiffened, and reached for his blaster.

Skywalker turned around sharply.

“Oh good. You’re awake.”

“It’s not like I went for a nap, Skywalker!” Piett burst out. “And what exactly do you think you are doing? Return to the cargo hold!” He pointed his blaster at the rebel, who just turned back to the controls and ignored him. He kept flipping switches on and off, trying to achieve who knows what with his cuffed hands.

“Come and take a look — Admiral — was it? These readings make absolutely no sense! Unless your Imperial associates at Sienar Fleet Systems have completely botched the latest line of production, which, given their sloppy quality control checks over the past six months, would not surprise me one little bit.”

Piett sputtered. The Rebel dared insult…!

“What are you prattling about!” he got up and stumbled over to the controls, shakily, blaster ever pointed at Skywalker. This rebel was, by all accounts, extremely crafty and dangerous, and he better not let his guard slip for a moment. At least Skywalker was still in his custody. And, the shuttle had stopped rocking. 

The first thing that struck the Admiral when he reached the pilot seat was the bright greenery rammed right against the cockpit viewport. They were on a planet, then. 

“Oh yes, we had a very intense landing,” offered Skywalker. “Or tree-ing, depending on how you want to look at it.”

Piett cast him a sidelong glance.

“You landed the shuttle?”

“Yes, well — it wasn’t going to land itself, Admiral.” the youth shrugged. “The aft engines were completely fried. I did try to find us helmets,” he added in what sounded like an almost apologetic tone. 

Helmets!

“This is an Imperial Lambda shuttle, Skywalker, not a snub fighter! It is not designed for…”

Skywalker cut him off.

“I hope you find comfort in that distinction the next time you look in the mirror,” he chimed in with an eyebrow raised, and Piett’s scattered brain finally registered a dull pain emanating from his temple. With a rich bruise forming. Probably.

Piett glared at the rebel. The thought that he probably owed him his life slowly sank in. It left an unpleasant aftertaste. He cleared his throat and chose to focus on the displays. Skywalker was right. The instruments must have malfunctioned, because according to these readings, their location was off the galactic map, eaten by one endless void. 

No planets. No stars. No universe. Just void.

“The communication relays are toast as well,” continued Skywalker. “And from what I’ve gathered so far, we don’t have the spare parts to fix them.”

Piett straightened up. 

“You have some skills as a mechanic?”

The rebel nodded. Piett switched to command mode with the full authority professed by his title.

“Make a list of what we need to repair at least one of the relays. Then, we will head out to scout our surroundings. Let’s hope there aren’t any locals, and if there are — pray that they are in a good mood.”

“We actually need locals,” quipped Skywalker. “We will need more than sticks and stones to fix anything on this ship.”

Piett sighed. This was not shaping to be a bad day. Not at all. Not in the least. It was a terrible, horrible day, and he was stuck in it with Luke Skywalker, the Empire’s most wanted terrorist, and a smart mouth. As a bonus.

As if reading his mind, Skywalker lifted his shackled wrists, somehow making things worse:

“Mind removing this?”

Piett thought about it. Then thought about it some more. In the end, he didn’t have much choice.

“Can I trust that you will not be making any escape attempts?”

“While we are stuck wherever this is — yes.”

Piett scowled at the rebel, then brought his code cylinder to his wrists. The binders opened with a clank and fell to the floor.

“Thank you, Admiral. Much better.” 

The youth rubbed his wrists, and without another word, grabbed a datapad and began making a list of the parts.

“Just don’t make me regret this,” Piett muttered and stormed off to pack some supplies. Survival skills imbued by attending various Imperial camps and academy classes sluggishly trickled into his memory from far corners. “We need to find water.” They only had enough water for a day, day and half at best, so that was the clear priority. 

Skywalker piped in, unasked: “Some food would be nice, too. I hate Imperial rations.”

Piett cast him an annoyed look.

“I did not realize the Empire fed the Rebellion, Skywalker.”

But of course he realized it. The Rebels were known to raid Imperial supply depots on highly unpredictable but consistent intervals.

“Well, if you think about it — it really does feed the Rebellion. In a metaphorical sense,” with that, Skywalker had the audacity to grin.

Piett just shook his head and continued packing for their excursion into the wilderness. Skywalker had finished his list and came to help. They gathered what little useful survival items were found in the shuttle, and headed out. Upon descending the half-opened ramp, Piett noticed that the boy was limping. 

“Is your leg injured?”

“It’s nothing.”

Piett gave him a suspicious look, but they proceeded with their egress. The shuttle was tangled between the branches of a giant tree, at least twenty meters above the ground. Skywalker took in the scenery, grabbed a vine, and slid down like a native mammal adapted by evolution for tree canopies. It took a lot longer for Piett to reach the ground. Fortunately, Skywalker had stuck around as promised.

“Which way should we head to?” the rebel wondered, out loud. He held a pair of macrobinoculars which were proving to be useless in the thicket, his face suddenly strained. Then, Skywalker rubbed his temples and shook his head as if trying to adjust his own senses, but by the looks of it, that didn’t help.

Piett sighed.

“Perhaps we should have climbed up the tree and taken a good look around first…”

He stilled, and tried to listen for running water nearby — perhaps there was a stream or a river. The forest enveloped them in perfect silence, only the slightest huff of wind rustling the leaves above their heads.

“This is strange…” Piett thought out loud.

“ _Very_ strange,” agreed Skywalker, and looked around with deep unease.

If they were not able to hear any water, then they had to start looking for animal tracks or head downhill. Worst case, they would need to rely on collecting rainwater, and judging by the vivid greenery around, that would not be a problem. Piett relaxed just a little. He made sure their current position was marked on the blank map, then pointed to a direction that appeared to lead them downslope. Skywalker simply nodded, and the two castaways wove their way into the forest.

Hours later, still no water in sight, Skywalker’s limp had gotten much worse — even with the twig they had stopped to shape into a walking stick — and Piett’s head throbbed as if ready to split on two. The heat was getting to them. The Admiral had taken off his uniform tunic with true reluctance and folded it neatly in his backpack, while Skywalker had tied his jacket around his waist. The atmosphere of this planet was strange — they were unable to spot a sun in the heavy overcast skies, but daylight was now quickly fading. Piett looked at Skywalker — pain clearly written on his face — who continued to trudge forward without complaint. And he began scanning for a place to camp for the night.

He stopped the boy and pointed to the base of a large tree trunk. 

“Let’s take a break for the day and get some rest. I will gather some firewood.”

The boy nodded, relief written plainly on his face.

When Piett returned, Skywalker had cleared the ground of pinecones and rocks in a small circle and built a fire pit out of nearby rocks in the center. The Admiral was reluctantly impressed. He got the fire going while Luke rummaged through their backpack for rations. The still twilight brought a welcome chilly bite with it; the warmth and liveliness of the fire provided a nice distraction. 

The minutes passed in silence, then Piett stole a look at Skywalker for the first time, without seeing him as just an arrest warrant description for the Empire’s most wanted. Rebel or not, this was just a boy, with an injured leg.

“Should we take a look at that ankle of yours? We do have a medkit.” 

Skywalker looked up to him with surprise.

“It’s just a sprain.”

“Regardless.”

Piett looked at the ankle — it was swollen and angry. He got bandages from the medkit to wrap it tightly. Skywalker helped without a word.

“You should try to sleep with your leg elevated. We can figure something out…”

The youth was observing him with a slightly bewildered expression.

“Uh… Thank you, Admiral.”

“You act surprised. I am an Imperial officer, Skywalker. Far from a savage.”

Skywalker sighed, then pointed at his head.

“Your wound needs some help as well.”

Piett reluctantly agreed, and since they did not have a mirror, he let Skywalker disinfect and cover his gash with a bacta patch. He thanked him, and then, the two sat in silence for a long while staring at the flames, picking at the lackluster rations. Piett was immersed making plans and more contingency plans in his head for tomorrow, when the rebel suddenly asked with a far-away voice:

“Are you… Do you by any chance serve on the Flagship?”

The Admiral lifted his head with unabashed pride.

“I serve on the Executor, yes.”

He was not certain, but it looked like the boy shrank back from the light of the fire, his face a few shades paler. Piett could guess why. This boy, by his looks still in his teenage years, through his rebellious acts had become an obsession for the Empire’s second in command, and nothing good for him would ever come out of that.

“Just how old are you?” the Admiral suddenly burst out.

Skywalker cast him a glare.

“Are we throwing questions at each other now?”

“It is one way to pass the time,” shrugged Piett, diplomatically.

“I am twenty-two.”

Twenty-two. The Rebel who had blown the Death Star to smithereens, resulting in one of the Empire’s greatest embarrassments, had accomplished the task at nineteen — and was now a mature twenty-two. Piett couldn’t help but shake his head.

“So… you must be Admiral Piett?” the boy surprised him.

“Correct,” he allowed himself a chuckle. “I wonder what Rebel Intel has on me.”

“That you are a highly competent man promoted for his merit, not the usual nepotism case. You are not to be underestimated, and you serve directly under Vader.”

Piett sucked in a breath. The boy poked the fire with a stick, and continued on with a tone which tried too hard to convince of the next questions’ casual nature:

“What is that like, by the way? Working with him every day?”

Piett was taken back. Was the rebel hoping he would reveal some sensitive information? The kid could not possibly expect him to answer honestly. So he responded with an evasive question of his own, stressing the proper title of his superior.

“You want to know details about daily life working with _Lord_ Vader?”

The youth cast him a startled look, and for a moment appeared as if he was about to renegade on the question. But he didn’t. So Piett added on:

“Serving under Lord Vader is the highest privilege for any Imperial officer. He is a strategic genius, inspiring confidence and loyalty. I believe Rebel Command is familiar with his track record. In short, Death Squadron is accustomed to success, and proud of it.”

 _“Except when it comes to you_ ,” Piett thought, _“you somehow manage to foil all his plans.”_

Skywalker listened with well-guarded interest, which Piett found just a bit strange. Then, he remembered all the failed missions and thwarted capture attempts this rebel had dragged the entire fleet into on numerous occasions, and added with just a hint of shade:

“And he will be very pleased to finally have _you_ in custody.”

The boy’s face, predictably, darkened, and the conversation sputtered out. Piett got up and arranged a security perimeter to alert them should anyone approach the camp. When he returned, Skywalker had curled up with his back to the fire. Piett tried to make himself comfortable on the bare ground, and eventually drifted off as well. _  
_


	2. Rising Action, Part I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Luke and Piett meet the local population, and make some choices with dramatic consequences.

ACT III

As the morning light flooded their clearing, the two castaways were awoken by a ruckus erupting from the nearby bushes. The security perimeter alarm sounded too late: a gaggle of humanoid creatures burst out to surround them before Piett could reach for his blaster. 

Tall, short, with colorful hair, scales, feathers, and fur - and they were wearing such garish outfits that the Admiral had to rub his eyes. With their luck, the universal translator wouldn’t even work here. Not that Piett frequently allowed himself to rely on such frivolous things as luck. Judging by the type of weapons the aliens carried, his hopes for a local settlement with technological advancement at any useful stage to provide parts for the relay quickly sank.

“Who are you?” asked a tall woman with pointed ears, flowing green hair, sharpened teeth, and an even sharper spear pointed at Piett. Well, the translator worked - and that was a start.

“Um…” he stalled.

“We are travelers,” Skywalker chipped in. 

“Travelers? Where do you come from and why are you here?”

Piett exchanged a warning glance with the rebel.

“We…uh… come from the East?” 

It seemed as good of a direction as any. The newcomers, however, did not appear to think so.

“The East?” one of them rumbled, while the others gripped their weapons tighter. “Why have you come?”

“We lost our way… ” Piett tried, diplomatically. While he was racking his brain for a further response, the leader stepped forward with her spear. Suddenly, one of the smaller creatures cut in with another question:

“You must have come for the performance, then?”

Piett sensed danger, but since that little supposition seemed to have stopped the advancing spear, he took a risk.

“Yes, for the performance.”

The group exchanged silent looks, then the leader lowered her weapon and brought her face very close to the Admiral’s. He observed that her whiskers were powdered with iridescent dust and tried not to stare. 

“Are you the father and son, then?”

Piett’s eyes widened, while Skywalker shifted on his feet beside him, gaze suddenly trailing on the dirt. 

“We have been waiting for a long time…” something not unlike a reverent whisper spread through the outlandish group of creatures. The Admiral tried to stall for time and judge the situation. The sparkly-whiskered leader suddenly crouched before Skywalker, examining him with searching eyes. The youth returned her gaze evenly. Without warning, she lifted her hand to his face and traced his jawline.

“You are of the One…” her voice broke through, hushed and solemn. “Do not despair, child. For as a son yearns for his father, the father does yearn for his son.”

Skywalker flinched back, swatted her hand away, and spat out:

“Stop that!...” 

This earned him some shocked gasps and distinctly hateful hisses from the crowd. The leader snarled at him and lifted her spear.

“One with no father is of no use to us.” 

Piett could detect a few high-pitched voices in the background, muttering: “Such disrespect is not to be borne…” 

The Admiral had always been good reading people and situations, and the threat mounting over Skywalker’s head was palpable. The leader planted her spear in the ground, then unhooked a coiled whip from her belt. Two lizard-like aliens broke away from the group, grabbed the startled rebel by the arms, and kicked him down to his knees. The leader lifted her whip for a swing.

“Stop!” shouted Piett, and stepped in front of her without quite thinking this through. “Hands off my son!”

Skywalker cast him a bewildered look, his jaw slack. Excitement spread restlessly through the crowd, and the whip dropped away from the rebel’s face. Still, the whiskered creature cast a dark look at the rebel.

“Mind your words in front of your elders, boy!”

Skywalker kept his silence, perhaps still too surprised to speak.

Finally, the leader turned to Piett and looked at him for a few excruciatingly long moments before pronouncing her final judgement:

“You two will be coming with us.”

The alien group circled them and left them with little choice. They did allow the castaways to gather their camp gear, then led them on a tiring trek through the forest. The aliens gave very short breaks, and once tried to press the injured youth to walk faster — but Piett trusted his hunch and stepped in. They seemed to defer to his will as far as Skywalker was concerned. Towards the end of the day, the rebel and Piett — both exhausted — were more than relieved to see the glimmering lights of what appeared to be a settlement in a valley beneath the foothills. 

As they reached the village, they were brought before a gathering of weathered beings — their feathers and fur a bit faded (Piett guessed with age) — who descended upon them with unbridled curiosity. The apparent Chief among them, a bird-like fellow with a tall cone hat constantly threatening to topple over his beak, raised a dappled wing and the whispers receded. He examined Piett and Skywalker, then motioned to the guards who had brought them in.

“I will speak with the father. Take the son away.”

The admiral opened his mouth to protest, but Skywalker shook his head and whispered:

“It will be okay…”

As the guards stepped in to lead the boy away, all Piett could do was shout: “I hope you treat my son well!” after them. His voice echoed in the domed chamber. 

To his relief, the Chief responded:

“Your son will not be harmed. Now, we have much to discuss.”

Piett sighed and fervently prayed to the entire Axxilan pantheon that he should be blessed with enough sense, and luck, or a fortuitous combination of both, to continue this charade.

* * *

  
A few hours later, the Admiral was guided to retrieve Luke Skywalker from a building resembling a stockade. The rebel was under guard, and when Piett entered his chamber, he stared at him with a forlorn look.

“Well,” began Piett, “we have two choices, neither of which you are going to like.”

Skywalker sighed and raised an eyebrow. 

“I take it water is not one of the choices?”

Piett cast him a sidelong glance.

“We will get you some water soon. Now listen. It seems at its core, this culture revolves around story-telling and… entertainment. They are firmly set in their traditions, they are quite pedantic about them, and at first glance, they value patriarchy. Yet they serve a Queen and worship a Goddess. There is an important Holiday coming up, with a grand fair held at the capital. Apparently, it is far away by local standards. The governors from all provinces send troupes to perform feats of entertainment at court. They cherish re-enactments of their religious and philosophical beliefs, as is common in all cultures, I suppose.” Piett paused, wondering how to continue.

“And… where exactly do we fall in all of this?” Skywalker quipped in a voice laden with suspicion.

“We have been enlisted in a theater troupe,” the words rolled out of Piett’s mouth in too much of a hurry. “We either perform a play on the stage, or we entertain the Queen in the arena below, to be devoured by exotic animals.”

Skywalker blinked, stared, then laughed.

“So... a play you say?”

Piett sighed. 

“It appears so. They will not tell me much, but apparently they need a father and son - a duo tied by real bonds of family, for the main roles. This is where we luckily fit in.”

Skywalker’s laughter took a nervous turn.

“Yeah… _Luckily._ ”

“Oh, I forgot to add: they are very strict about their code of conduct here, generational respect in particular. You have to show reverence when addressing anyone who appears to be over ten years older than you. Especially your parents, or in your case,” — he raised both eyebrows — “father.”

Skywalker rolled his eyes.

“Just when I thought things couldn’t get any better!”

“Drop the sarcasm and try to look at the positive side, Skywalker. This whole charade lends us an opportunity to go to their capital — which I was given to understand is much more sophisticated than this village — and perhaps find something we can use to fix the relay. Without being dispatched by aliens, or eaten by exotic animals. All we need to do is some improv, and perform in a play. By the way, they seemed _very_ excited to have us.”

Skywalker ran fingers through his hair. Piett added, as an afterthought:

“Although how we would be able to tell who is older based on the local residents’ appearance is beyond me. Now come, we have been given a place to stay.”

Skywalker followed him, and the guards let them pass without issue. Daylight had faded to an inky whisper, with no moons or stars to be seen behind the clouds. Their stone-built cabin was nestled underneath a blooming tree with long, weeping branches. It scented the air pleasantly. Inside the house, food and drink had been laid out on a low round table. Skywalker and Piett collapsed around it. Some nourishment helped, and after their meal, the rebel suddenly asked:

“Why did you do it? Why did you step in for me?”

“Your bounty clearly states alive and uninjured, Skywalker,” Piett allowed himself a chuckle. “Besides, this is a strange place. We should stick together to survive. If a little pretend game is what it takes, then I will gladly take the role of your father.”

The youth looked away sharply, clearly uncomfortable.

“I apologize if I offended you just now — if your own culture or beliefs makes this situation uncomfortable,” Piett added in earnest.

“No, it’s not that,” muttered the boy. “I just… I wanted to thank you.”

“No need. I hope your real father will not feel upstaged by this silliness,” Piett attempted a joke, then realized that once Skywalker was brought to Lord Vader, the chances of him seeing his father again were beyond slim. He chided himself, and to prevent the boy from landing on the same conclusion, he attempted a quick diversion:

“What is your father like, anyways? If you don’t mind me asking?”

A shadow crossed Skywalker’s face and he replied in a grim tone:

“Funny. I should ask you that same question.”

Not the answer he expected, but Piett took this opportunity to distract Skywalker further.

“Oh, my father? We rarely saw eye to eye. He loathed my career choice. I have not seen him in years, but we do talk, occasionally. He still makes dad jokes.” Piett paused and took in the rebel’s grave expression.

“We will get out of this, Skywalker. Or — perhaps I may call you Luke? You are to be my son now, after all.” 

“Sure, go ahead,” here, the rebel looked at Piett with a coy smile — a welcome change from the earlier somber mood — and added, “Firmus.”

“Ha! I see Rebel High Command has been keeping keen tabs on me. I am flattered.”

“Yes. And your file keeps growing by the hour.”

The two candles in their hut began flickering wildly, about to burn out. The castaways muttered a hurried “Good night”, and soon each settled into a restless dream of their own.


	3. Rising Action, Part II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The script thickens...

**ACT IV**

The next day, Piett and Skywalker were introduced to their fellow performers, who rushed to welcome them in a flurry of fangs, feathers and excitement. The exact play the troupe was going to be involved with remained a mystery, for now. Apparently, someone important from the capital had taken notice of their appearance, and a high ranking court official had been dispatched to take over the script. In the meantime, Piett and Luke were given painted prop swords and told to improvise. 

“Ah,” smiled the Admiral, examining his new weapon, “as with any great story, we are to expect some conflict!”

Luke picked up the other prop sword and furrowed a brow.

“Did they mention what we will be fighting?”

The boy sounded displeased, yet his gaze lingered wistfully on the wooden blade. 

“Not yet, but we need to practice for a sword battle. I suppose it’s better than clubs or spears, at least.” Piett smirked at Skywalker: “Don’t worry, I took fencing classes during my time at the Academy. I bet they didn’t teach you _that_ in the Rebellion!”

Luke pulled his gaze away from the sword and scoffed:

“Yeah, we normally have more pressing issues to deal with than playing with swords.” Piett did not miss Luke’s pointed look at him underscoring “pressing issues”.

“At least not with swords of the typical variety…” the boy added as an afterthought.

“Ha, your loss! Then again, you Rebels are accustomed to losing.” Piett had meant it as a joke but realized his words may have struck a touch too close to home. So he quickly added:

“Truth be told, I am excited to get back into practice. I will be happy to show you some moves if you’d like. Fencing is a noble art that helps build discipline and concentration; it has gone sadly under-appreciated in recent centuries.” 

And just then alarm bells pealed in his mind as it finally registered what Skywalker had said about swords.

“Wait. What exactly did you mean by ‘not swords of the _typical_ variety’?”

Luke shrugged and very pointedly continued examining the decorations on his sword.

“Did you mean rapiers? Or perhaps you are referring to...” Piett blanched and spat out: “The Rebellion has access to lightsabers?!” 

Lightsabers, as everyone knew, were the weapons of the dangerous by-gone Jedi. The Admiral was aware of exactly one person who still carried a lightsaber in present times. He had heard only rumors about the mayhem and devastation this person could inflict with it, and he had no reason to doubt any of them. The thought of bands of rebels suddenly swinging lightsabers around, even if just able to deal a fraction of the damage, was… disturbing.

Skywalker’s expression had turned grim, but he kept his silence. Still, realistically, if the Rebels were arming themselves with troves of lightsabers, ISB would have found out about it, and as far as the Admiral could remember, he had read no such reports. So, he allowed himself to relax and let the issue go. 

“I do hope for your sake that you meant rapiers…” 

“I certainly did not mean rapiers,” came the pert reply.

Piett cut his stern Fleet Admiral glare in Skywalker’s direction, but while most Imperial officers this boy’s age would cower under it, he just raised an eyebrow and glared back. _He is just trying to rattle me,_ Piett thought. _If he really had a lightsaber_ , _he would have carried it when I captured him_. In the end, whether or not Skywalker possessed such a weapon was a problem for Lord Vader to puzzle out, so Piett shook off all lightsaber concerns and returned his attention to the present. 

He lifted his sword and swung it to evaluate its balance. 

“Well, we won’t be able to achieve much finesse using these shovels,” he scowled, “but we will make do.” 

Luke stared at the hilt of his weapon with something quite like regret, trapped in his thoughts far away.

“Come, Luke — let’s practice for a bit. It’s not like we have anything else on our schedule.”

Skywalker sighed, but he tucked the sword to his side and followed Piett to the courtyard. The Admiral wanted to gauge the skill of his pretend opponent.

“Do you have any experience fencing?”

“I’m not sure what I have anymore,” the boy ground out, restrained anger seeping through his words. Piett chose not to prod.

“Well... Let’s find out, shall we?”

Luke lifted his sword in a stance Piett was unfamiliar with. The Admiral moved into his ready position, and they exchanged a few cursory attacks and parries.

“Very good!” Piett exclaimed after about a minute, “I am not sure what your style is, but you do have some skill! Just don’t push that ankle, and tell me if you want to stop.”

“I don’t want to stop.” Skywalker paused, for the next question apparently cost him a great deal to ask. “Will you... teach me your style?”

Piett straightened his shoulders.

“Whenever you are ready, _son_ ,” he smirked.

The boy gave him one of those hooded looks, but nodded his assent. Piett was pleased to find out that his fencing skills from decades ago were still sharp, and for the first time in his life, they were about to prove useful. He showed Luke several classic fencing maneuvers and some footwork. The boy was a quick study; soon they were engrossed in a dance of parry and riposte, feint and lunge. The clack of the wooden swords kept them going in a mesmerizing rhythm. Piett had lost all track of time when two intruders suddenly appeared in the courtyard, and in a fit of giggles, sat cross-legged on the grass to watch them spar.

Piett signaled a stop, and in one short breath realized that he was exhausted. At least, judging by the sweat on his pretend son’s brow, he had not fared that much better. They turned their eyes on the newcomers: two human girls dressed in finery, the older one possibly around ten, and the younger - Piett couldn’t begin to guess her age. He hadn’t had many opportunities to spend time around children.

Skywalker waved at them.

“Hi, there!”

The girls jumped up, waved back, and ran to meet them. 

“Hello!” The older one looked up to Piett through a fringe of brown curls and pointed at him: “We don’t know you.”

Her younger friend set a solemn gaze on Skywalker: “But we do know you!”

“Oh?” Luke smiled and crouched down to meet them at eye-level. “I don’t seem to remember, but why don’t you tell me all about it?”

“You made flower crowns for us, and taught us how to fight! Come, we will show you!”

Luke cast a surprised glance at Piett, who shook his head.

“Just bring the swords, too!” The older girl chimed in, then looked up to Piett: “Are you his son?”

The Admiral laughed. “No — I am afraid it’s the other way around!”

The two kids appeared confused for a second, but shrugged off his response, and then the younger one grabbed Luke’s hand to lead him away.

Where had these girls come from? They didn’t look anything like the other aliens Piett had observed on this planet.

“Well… seems like practice is over, for now,” Luke turned to him. “Care to join us and make flower crowns?”

Piett straightened his back and handed him the sword.

“I’m afraid my wreath-making days are long over, Luke. Just watch the kids with these swords. Their parents will probably want them back in one piece.”

Luke froze mid-movement, then muttered: “Yeah, normal parents usually do…”

Piett opened his mouth to tell his pretend son to watch out for himself, too, but ended up waving a hand to send him off instead. He was probably being paranoid.

“We will be called for the evening meal soon - so stay close, and let’s meet up then.”

About an hour later, the Admiral spotted a crowned Luke Skywalker waiting by the entrance of the village’s common hall. He sized up his colorful wreath and quipped:

“It truly compliments your eyes, Your Highness!”

“Hah. You are just jealous that you didn’t get one.”

“My own son didn’t think to forge me a crown. I am deeply hurt.”

Luke slid him a sidelong glare.

“Yeah, and just in case you are wondering, ruling the galaxy together is off the table.”

Piett chuckled at that random idea — the boy did have a sense of humor. 

They walked side by side into the dining hall to find their places at the long communal table set close to the village Chief. He greeted them with a respectful short bow, which the Admiral was only too happy to return. Dinner continued uneventfully, but Piett noted that while they were both careful to keep their charade up in front of the other guests, Skywalker almost choked the first time he tried to call Piett “father”, and found clever ways to avoid the word after that.

On their second day in the village, the Costume Guild paid a visit to the troupe and took their measurements. The excitement of the clothiers was palpable, and it spread to everyone who came to chat with them or observe their sword practice. The positive mood began to rub off even on Piett. The truth was, things could have gotten a whole lot worse on this planet. 

Late in the afternoon, the two girls appeared again and whisked Luke away for another pretend game. This time, he was to be an evil overlord, and they were to fight him to the death. Drama was in the local inhabitants’ blood, it seemed. Piett placed a chair under the shade of a leafy tree, and took pleasure in observing their game from the sideline. It was most… relaxing. 

The so-called High Scriptwriter visited them on the third day, having arrived in state all the way from the capital. A sinewy snake-like creature with bright orange eyes and slit pupils, she wore an elaborate dark robe embroidered with iridescent pearls like strings of endless tears. The velvet-like cloth appeared to drink the light which dared touch it, and it was quite possibly more valuable than the entire village put together. Piett suspected there was more to this being’s role than what met the eye, but since the local culture valued storytelling so greatly, perhaps her profession alone was indeed enough to afford her such luxury. Their fellow troupe members treated the Scriptwriter with reverence, and when she stopped by the courtyard to observe Piett and Luke’s sparring that afternoon, the Admiral put in his best effort. Luke’s two young friends either did not come to visit that day, or were not let inside.

As they approached the long end of the dining hall that night, Piett noticed that the High Scriptwriter had taken the Chief’s high chair at the head of the table, while the Chief now sat to her left. They were chatting vigorously with a few members of the troupe. Piett and Luke took their usual seats, and the Chief immediately turned to greet them: 

“Ah, here you are. I just heard about your practice sessions over the past few days.” He clasped his hands together with a dreamy expression. “By the looks of it, we will be blessed with a stunning duel between father and son!”

Piett took in this new bit of information in stride, but next to him, Skywalker dropped a utensil, which landed on the polished stone floors with a loud clank.

“Do you mean our roles in the play?” Piett inquired, politely.

“But of course!” the High Scriptwriter nodded enthusiastically.

“Your performance means so much to us,” continued the Chief — was he misty-eyed? — “We are in awe of your dedication.”

“Certainly, certainly,” Piett remarked while trying perfunctory to adjust his chair. Next to him, Skywalker had gone utterly still. “It is our pleasure to entertain the Queen on the village’s behalf.”

The High Scriptwriter observed them with a rapacious gaze. Her eyes suddenly reminded Piett of one particularly cunning Axxilan bird of prey, a common character in children’s folk tales. Then, just as suddenly, she moved to engage them in conversation.

“The place that you come from… How do the night skies appear there?”

Piett decided that no answer could be careful enough.

“Not too different from here, Your Grace.”

“And do you wish for your return?”

Was that a trick question…? He cleared his throat.

“Yes, we do,” Piett paused, then added hurriedly, “after the performance.”

“Indeed.” 

The High Scriptwriter’s predatory gaze turned to Luke.

“Something wrong, dear boy? You haven’t taken a single bite.”

If possible, Luke stiffened even more beside him.

“No… Nothing wrong.” The rebel’s response was flat and quiet, as if all trace of joy had been sucked out of him in a single strike. He began picking listlessly at his food. 

“My son,” ventured Piett and placed a hand on his shoulder. “Do take care and eat something.”

Luke jumped, startled, and gave him a dark look.

“You must be in good shape for the performance,” chimed in the Chief.

“I’ll do my best.” His pretend son’s gloomy face promised otherwise. He stabbed his food as if trying to extinguish any last bits of life lingering within, and said nothing further. 

The conversation, fortunately, shifted to the harmless topic of how a newly cultivated flower bulb collection should be distributed among the villagers, and Piett relaxed a fraction while daring another look in Luke’s direction. He had taken no more than one or two bites of his meal, and when his eyes crossed Piett’s, a silent plea flashed through before the boy steeled himself.

“I am tired. May I be excused, sir?“ Not surprisingly, he choked out the last word as if a fishbone had lodged itself in his throat. Piett raised an eyebrow.

“Of course, son. Go on and rest.”

Luke gave the Scriptwriter and Chief a parting bow, then with another “Please excuse me” left the table. The guests’ collective gaze trailed his steps with enraptured reverence. 

When Piett returned to their stone hut, he found Luke by the fire pit outside, hands buried in his hair, staring at the flames. Piett strode over to the tree stump opposite the boy and sat down.

“What happened tonight, Luke? What’s bothering you?”

Luke lifted his head and briefly met his gaze.

“It’s…nothing. I am just imagining things.”

“Whatever it is, I can listen.”

The boy dropped his hands to his knees and sighed.

“Did you get more details about the play from this Scriptwriter...? Has...has she written anything yet?”

“I did! At first glance, it appears a fairly conventional story,” mused Piett. “Just your typical conflict between Good and Evil, on both personal and ideological levels. You will be pleased to know that I have the Evil role.”

“And we end up fighting each other in the end?” Luke couldn’t keep the strain out of his voice.

“Yes.” Piett smiled, just realizing something. “I suppose the conflict is generational as well.” 

The boy reached for a stick to poke the logs with, and Piett could have been wrong, but his hand appeared to shake in the firelight. Suddenly, it all made sense. Why Luke avoided calling him “father”. Why this play appeared to bother him so much. 

They spent the next minute in silence, Luke prodding the fire logs, and Piett wondering whether to broach the subject.

“You and your father… you don’t get along?”

Luke froze, then snapped the stick in two and tossed it in the fire.

“No. We don’t.”

“I understand why this situation is bothering you so much, then.”

The boy gave him a distant look and sighed.

“But it’s not just that, Firmus… There is something wrong with this place… I can feel it.”

The way Luke tilted his head, as if tuning into some cosmic lifeline to receive invisible answers, suddenly reminded Piett of Lord Vader. The thought unnerved him.

“What do you mean?”

“I am not sure. But I have a bad feeling about this planet, and about this play, and about us getting caught up here in the first place!”

Piett pondered about it. Had they not crashed here, by now Skywalker would have been presented to Lord Vader, borne his wrath, and tossed in a high-security cell aboard the Executor. Or worse.

“Well, at least it has to be better for you than the alternative…” the Admiral shot out before checking himself. Luke blinked rapidly and laughed. Piett cleared his throat and quickly changed the subject.

“I understand how this situation may seem unnerving. But one more thing on the positive side: I found out that the High Scriptwriter doesn’t care that much about dialogue - she sees theater primarily as a visual medium. With a musical accompaniment. The story is meant to be felt rather than understood — and that is just fine for us — less script to learn. I was also told that the music for our play will be, I quote, ‘out of this world’. They have their preeminent Grand Composer writing the score. His role, apparently, is second only to the Queen.”

Luke folded his arms in front of his chest.

“Doesn’t it seem odd to you that they have us, two strangers, involved in such a high profile performance?”

“I have learned not to come to quick conclusions about foreign cultures, Luke. Perhaps this is their way of showing us great hospitality.”

“Perhaps…”

Luke shivered in his simple shirt. He picked up another stick and resumed poking at the logs. 

“Should we head inside?” ventured Piett.

“You go ahead… I want to stay a bit longer.”

Piett rose and wished him good-night. He headed for the hut, but turned around at the steps, took off his jacket, and returned to place it around Luke’s shoulders. He jolted back in surprise.

“It gets cold here at night. Don’t stay up too late.”

“Thank you…” the boy stammered, and his next question startled Piett. “Do you have children, Firmus?”

“Um, no. I am afraid my life took a different turn.”

Luke cleared his throat, and his sincere gaze held the Admiral still for a few seconds.

“Pity.”

Piett took in the sight of this boy, just barely grown into a man, wrapped under his Imperial uniform, the Fleet Admiral badge reflecting the flames in scatters of blue and red. In another universe, an Imperial tunic would have suited him perfectly. But in this universe, Luke’s life had taken a different turn as well — a wrong turn — and now it was Piett’s duty to bring him to his doom. _This_ was the true pity.

The next day, the High Scriptwriter announced that the entire troupe was to head for the capital. By afternoon, all packed, their fellow performers climbed on a long sequence of wagons arranged by the main paved road. The village Chief and most of the residents came to send them away with a blessing, and not long after, the caravan left the huddled valley behind. Piett felt a sudden pang that he had not seen the two cheerful girls in the crowd, and they were to be parted from Luke without a good-bye.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you everyone for the warm reception of this fic, it's been a joy to read your comments! (...and yes, please, I look forward to more! 🥰 )
> 
> And many thanks to SpellCleaver 💖 for the beta!
> 
> P.S. There is a George Lucas quote buried in this chapter for you to find XD 😶🎭😉


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